Facing a great degree of challenge and apathy, updated my music blog.
Kept abreast of my mom’s ongoing, relentlessly shifting health issues and wished I lived closer. Thanked the stars she has a “family team” in her hometown.
Came home and escaped into Nicole’s hug and smiles, and a book.
Prepared for my own next health “interaction” by filling out paperwork containing the exact same four pages of questions I filled out last week.
Ate “greens ‘n’ garlic” ravioli from Pasta La Fata…and more cookies.
Vegged out to The Durrells of Corfu, though the science vs. seance episode was deeply welcome.
I woke up at 3 with nothing that stress-inducing on my mind–nothing specific, which is usually what sends my mind too wakefully searching–but I was totally alert and unable to even imagine going back to sleep. I just got up, performed my morning rituals, and tip-toed around so Nicole could catch up on her shut-eye (I hate it, but she doesn’t sleep well when I’m gone). Fortunately, the cats cooperated, Tux and Junior delaying their daily thunderous hallway wrasslin’ until later in the afternoon.
Chase Thompson, one of the many excellent educators at Stephens and truly among the most enthusiastic, curious, and creative teachers I’ve known, invited me to visit his class and be interviewed in podcast style. He’s teaching his students to construct those, but he’s also making his own with fellow Stephens folks as subjects. I was very humbled to have been asked, since I am so low on the academic totem pole I’m under ground, and we had a blast. We talked about masks, Facebook threads that last multiple months, mentors that find you rather than vice versa, ground-breaking musical moments in our youth that change everything, and so much more. Speaking of those far-unfurling Facebook threads, Chase made me relive one that happened on my wall (“Pick one and justify it: Otis Redding or Wilson Pickett” is an example–remember that one?) by letting his students interrogate me: Pink or Ariana Grande? Genesis or Rush? Pink Floyd of Tame Impala? None of those are my particular cuppa, but I survived!
When I got home, I found Nicole in full-on cooking mode–she had a kind of snow day, as her school’s heating system was down and they were needing time to install a part. She made some delicious hummus, some dangerous oatmeal-cherry cookies with raw sugar crusted up on top of ’em, and a belated crockpot full of her famous Chiefsburger Soup. That’s the kind of cooking I love cleaning up after.
Closed out with The Durrells in Corfu and All Creatures Great and Small and crossed my fingers for 7-8 hours of sleep.
Streaming for Strivers:
Her voice, guitar, and spirit have rung out eighty-plus years and show no signs of slowing.
I’d driven about 1,000 miles over the past five days, and finally came to rest back home in frigid-gettin’-more-frigid Columbia. Left Mom in Monett with some ideas I hoped might help, and maybe they did: after eight months–that was a smart delay–she boxed up my dad’s clothes (with the help of Phyllis and Mike Garrett) and took them to Crosslines. Few things are harder to do after the death of a loved one, but few things are (at least eventually) more necessary. I am very proud of her! And grateful: I’m perpetually underdressed for cold snaps and she sent me with one of Dad’s big coats. The roads were fine, but freezing drizzle had been forecast, and she didn’t want to see me trudging up a shoulder of I-44 in worn ol’ hoodie.
Nicole was at work when I arrived, but homemade peanut butter, chocolate chip, and oatmeal cherry cookies were waiting for me, as well as some of her famous sweet-potato-enriched enchiladas. I got caught up on my reading, filled out some endless paperwork for my upcoming pulmonary appointment (I tell ya, it never ends!), and had an enjoyable FB Messenger convo with the mentally energetic Adam Sperber regarding The Five Royales, Tony Williams, Sonny Sharrock and other geniuses.
When Nicole got home, we cooked a pizza and some spinach, got under the covers, lounged, read, transformed into cat furniture, and hit the sack early (well, the time was normal for one who awakens when we do). There’s no place like home, especially right now.
Streaming for Strivers:
Speaking of Black musical history titans who left us too soon and are too little known to the general public, the inventor of chainsaw jazz!
Yesterday was a long march to a disappointing Super Bowl. Mom is a big Patrick Mahomes fan but it was not a good evening to be that (though he did prove tough). In other sports news, I finally had a chance to watch Luka Garza play on the tube, and that, too, was underwhelming.
While visiting here, I bought groceries and dinner for us, and Mom was concerned about paying me back. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but we worked out a deal. She “bought” me some books for about the same amount, thus allowing me once again to get around violating my resolution (which I actually violated the day before–see Commentary 323). I know you’re on tenterhooks needing to know what tomes I chose: U. S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo’s new anthology of Native Nations poetry, Drs. Ibram X. Kendi and Keisha Blain’s “community history” of African America (titled 400 Souls), and New York Times columnist Charles Blow’s new book The Devil You Know: A Black Power Manifesto.
I also researched ways I can get Nicole and myself vaccinated against COVID-19 since, as Missouri teachers, and according to state leadership, we are not considered in urgent need. Governor Deputy Dawg: friend of public education.
Headed out in the morning to drop off Mom’s recycling, grab pre-Super Bowl groceries, and swing by Wal-Mart for some meds I left in Columbia. I do not mean to sound condescending or snide–though I’ve never quite been hopeful, I have been cruising Wally’s book section for many, many years–but I was stunned, then happy to see Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Anti-Racist and Robin DeAngelo’s White Fragility displayed right next to Bill O’Reilly’s new Killing Trees. I grabbed a copy simply to mark the auspicious occasion, then remembered my resolution to refrain from buying books this year (and just read what I have)–then came back five hours later and bought it anyway. (Yes, I was masked as were most of the customers.)
Viewing: Mom and I watched Mizzou’s cage squad temporarily crush the Crimson Tide, then almost cough up a loss. Later, we looked for a series we hadn’t tried, and, remembering friends’ recommendations, sampled Peaky Blinders. Is watching three straight episodes “sampling”? I don’t know about Mom, but I’m in. Now to convince Nicole….
Ultra-cold weather’s moving in. Winter and mourning are a devastating mix, but we are fighting through it. We talked through some strategies and it made a difference. Jigsaw puzzles, books, hardwood and historical dramas did, too.
Streaming for Strivers:
Wisdom of the elders. A classic Black history document.
The past two days have been a bit of a whirlwind. Fortunately, I returned from my sleep study in time to have a breakfast of black bean and salsa tortillas (courtesy of the Tortilleria El Patron group) with Nicole before she took off for work. I did some house-tidying, buzzed over and renewed my drivers license (the Real ID renewal went relatively smoothly, but I damn near flunked the vision test–I only wear readers!), made some appointments for a couple felines at the vet, finished a book…then hit the road back to Monett again. I’m going to spend a few more days with Mom and watch the Super Bore with her–and with luck dodge any bad weather. Unfortunately, I bustled out without my backpack–how will I survive without my styling mousse, my new copy of The Week, and my just-found-after-weeks-missing bamboo toothbrush?
Listened to more late-Columbia-period Billie Holiday on the drive back and finally satisfied my Rascals craving that must not have been too intense since I kept forgetting it–but damn, that group was good! I can listen to “Ain’t Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore” on repeat for an hour–a long-time favorite. Also, I deeply enjoyed (as always) the greatest album of the most dissonantly catchy indie rock band of all-time: Archers of Loaf’s Vee Vee. A dude who should have already changed lanes to let me in off the Highway 5 off-ramp to I-44 STOPPED COLD on the interstate to let me in AS I REACHED THE VERY END OF THE RAMP AFTER I’D ALREADY STOPPED. He and probably I are lucky to be alive.
My mom and I had her quick and delicious recipe of Parmesan chicken (plus peas and roasted Rosemary potatos), then suffered through the very bad opening episode of Netflix’s Firefly Lane (Mom says read the book). We switched to the Nets – Raptors game to witness Kevin Durant removed from the bench due to contact tracing and NBA health protocols and see my observation that Brooklyn should never have traded Jarrett Allen further validated.
I then did the impossible: I slept nine hours.
Streaming for Strivers:
I’m not sure what’s up with the thumbnail, but I tell you what–take a chance and click to hear one of the greatest compilations of African music ever released.
Drove back to Columbia. I tell you what: the album Have Moicy! by The Unholy Modal Rounders, Jeffrey Fredericks & The Clamtones, and Michael Hurley is inexhaustible. Hilarious, cosmic, randy, catchy, subversive, sneaky, utterly original, it might just change your life. It changes mine at least a little every time I listen to it.
Had a reunion with Nicole and our feline falanx. I’d been gone for a several days, and I reallllly missed ’em. Unfortunately, we could only catch up for a few hours, because I…
Did an in-patient sleep study. I felt like a kind of inverted Hellraiser. Didn’t sleep that great–I’m a side-sleeper and couldn’t hack back-sleeping more than half the night; the CPap took some getting used to; my tennis elbow flared up–but the technician (known to her peers as “T”) was from Clarksdale and we chatted about hot tamales, Super Chikan and T’s late uncle Razor Blade, and the difference between here and there. She did a great job working with me and getting me over the rough spots. Now? More results to wait on!
A quiet day, but that was good. Mom and I got Sonic cheeseburgers for lunch–my first burger in a long time–and though it and the tater tots were delicious, I can still feel that sucker sitting in my guts.
I continued dawdling my way through the great Charles Portis’ wild satire Masters of Atlantis. One critic called it what Twain would have been doing had he been alive in the latter half of the 20th century, and that’s spot on. I’d also call it “L. Ron Hubbard filtered through The Three Stooges.”
We were visited by Jim and Melissa Hague, who brought us pizza and mini-bundt cakes. Jim talked voluminously about his stock and advisory ventures and we mostly listened (truthfully, I asked him about GameStop and learned much from his answer).
After they left, we watched the Netflix documentary Crip Camp–you should, too. It was my second viewing and I was inspired even more powerfully this time around.
Tomorrow night: sleep study at Boone Hospital.
Streaming for Strivers:
You can hear much Black history in this album’s grooves.
It was a good day, and that’s saying something. It started with a mild disappointment–because Springfield didn’t ship Monett’s hospital enough doses, Mom couldn’t get vaccinated (she is rescheduled for Friday)–but then I drove her to our old hometown of Carthage to visit with some of her best friends (at distance, masked, plus most of them had already been vaccinated). We visited happily for around three hours, and the host, Sunny Michel (my childhood friend Sherri Marney’s mom) laid out a terrific lunch spread for us. I love sitting back and listening to their generation chat, but I actually found some space to talk: I had forgotten that Kay Vaughan once taught at my elementary, Columbian, and actually knew most of my grade school teachers–including a really, really, really bad one who indirectly caused me to become a teacher. I told a few stories none of them had heard….
Mom likes basketball, so we spent the evening watching a ripping good tussle between the Brooklyn Nets and the Los Angeles Clippers.
Streaming for Strivers:
A powerful early American Black (Musical) History lineup to dive into.
For the first month in I’m not sure how long–many, many years–I didn’t buy a single CD, vinyl record, or download. I don’t really feel like I cheated myself; if anything, I didn’t contribute my share to gifted musicians. I’m going to keep going with this resolution. Also, I only bought four books: three digital Virginia Woolfs for a total of five bucks and Brian Coleman’s Check the Technique, Volume 2, which our libraries don’t have and which doesn’t exist in digital form. Self-abnegation is the bomb!
My mom Jane has been due for a break. Her husband died suddenly midsummer and during a pandemic; they’d been married almost 61 years, and had lived together in the same house for 40. In November, she fell when a strong wind caught her umbrella as she went out to get the paper and suffered a rotator cuff tear; the injury worsened to the extent she couldn’t lift either arm more than a foot, couldn’t sleep in a bed (only a chair), and felt such pain she was frequently reduced to tears. Her surgery to repair the tear was scheduled for 6:15 a.m. yesterday, and she was filled with anxiety about its prospects. However, she’d demonstrated as we sat drinking coffee that she could lift both arms, and when I looked surprised, she said she wasn’t feeling pain at all. Then, as she was being prepped for the surgery and the nurse asked her to rate her shoulder pain from zero to 10, she said zero: “I haven’t felt pain in several weeks.” This I didn’t know–and I began quietly freaking out about the procedure: was it necessary? As I was messaging my brother to share my concern, the surgeon arrived, introduced himself, and, after having flipped through Mom’s chart, asked her, “Do we need to do this surgery? I like to operate to relieve pain, not cause it.”
15 minutes later, with the dawn light still not peeking through, we were back at the house, trying to wrap our heads around a new reality of no sling, no extreme pain and meds, no six-week rehab and PT. That break had arrived.
And she got her $600 gummint check in the mail! Note: I’m no fool–I’m grateful and happy for her, but I’m still holding my breath.
Special thanks to my “niece” Madison Dickens for constant health professional wisdom and reinforcement. Bow to your school nurses today for me and my mom if you get a chance.
The Overeem Farewell Tour: Dispatches from the Public School Trenches 